


After the Storm

by TheBraveHobbit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:32:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraveHobbit/pseuds/TheBraveHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He closed his eyes. “You don’t believe that?”</p><p>“I don’t believe in anything.” Grantaire said harshly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Storm

“It could be worse.” It was difficult to sound hopeful, with his leg pinned so crookedly beneath his weight, but the statement still rang true.

“Oh my god.” Grantaire stopped trying to shift the debris that blocked the exit, his shoulder braced against an impossible wrought iron beam, staring at Enjolras in what could only be described as horror.

“Nng!” Enjolras could not help the start, and he groaned at the shock it sent past his twisted knee. “What?”

“You’re one of _those_.” Grantaire grimaced, and it was an ugly expression, pulling awkwardly at the tight, discolored skin that ran over his left cheek and the bridge of his nose. Enjolras thought it looked rather like an acid burn, but he wasn’t about to ask. Ten minutes prior was the first time he’d even seen it; Grantaire generally kept a red handkerchief bound across his face, covering his mouth and nostrils. Enjolras had assumed it was supposed to function as a makeshift breather, but after the building fell Grantaire had tugged the cloth down to bind a cut on his bicep, baring his features. Seeing that burn, Enjolras suspected the handkerchief had more to do with vanity than with fear of inhaled toxins, as though the hell they lived in was any place for vanity.

“Those what?” He asked, trying to keep his voice level. The pain in his leg was astonishing, more than he’d ever experienced. He wanted to move it and never touch it again, all at once. It couldn’t stay pinned the way it was, and yet even the thought of shifting his weight caused sweat to bead on his forehead.

Grantaire turned back to the beam, probably trying to hide his disgust. It leaked into his voice. “Believers.”

“Ah.” What else was there to say to that, after all?

“You probably think the world can be rebuilt, don’t you? That the Storm didn’t break it all to hell. Oh god, you’re a fucking _Builder_.” From where Enjolras was resting, head craned and sitting propped up upon his elbows, he could see Grantaire’s hands clench and unclench. Grantaire leaned against the beam that blocked their escape, and he crossed his arms over his chest, shifting the utility belt that lay across his shoulders.

“You—” Enjolras laid down again, swallowing dryly in an effort to keep his voice from cracking as he leaned his head back. The concrete was cold, and there was a moment of fleeting ridiculousness where he missed his dreadlocks. It would have been so much more comfortable to lay back on a mass of hair than his bruised scalp. He closed his eyes. “You don’t believe that?”

“I don’t believe in anything.” Grantaire said harshly. “Open your eyes. No sleeping.”

“I’m not sleeping.” Enjolras promised. “I was just thinking that things could be much worse.”

“That’s such bullshit. Open your fucking eyes.”

It took some effort, but Enjolras obeyed. He was startled to see Grantaire leaning over him. He hadn’t heard any movement. The way Grantaire was crouched, the only light in their tiny prison was blocked by the bulk of his shoulders. Enjolras squinted to try and distinguish his features. He looked grim.

“Better.” Grantaire said. His voice was as smooth as his demeanor, which was to say that it was craggy and full of bitter edges. “You can’t sleep. Your head is bleeding.”

Enjolras frowned. Grantaire was obviously mad. Enjolras’ head throbbed a bit, but the only real pain he felt was in his leg. He had barely cracked his head when he’d fallen. He’d had worse bumps getting out of Bahorel’s cramped jeep. “My head is fine. My leg—”

“Broken leg is nothing. I mean, it needs to be set and such, but you’re not gonna die from it. Probably. This cracked egg, though…” Grantaire reached forward, and Enjolras set his jaw. He did not expect the crude vagabond to be gentle. There were thick callouses on Grantaire’s fingertips, and the nails were cracked and neglected, but when his fingers brushed Enjolras’ temple, his touch was astonishingly soft. Enjolras watched as Grantaire withdrew his fingers and held them in the light for them both to see. There was a shine to them. “No sleeping.” He said, again. Enjolras swallowed. There was a tight lump in his throat that would not sink.

Grantaire stood, bracing his hands on his hips as he looked about, presumably trying to take stock of their situation. His back was to Enjolras, and the thick musculature of his shoulders was apparent even through the leather of his jacket. Enjolras looked away, eyes trailing up to the hap-hazardly suspended rubble above his head. He felt suddenly very heavy and hot all over, and his head—so painfree before Grantaire had touched it—now ached and burned with an incessant cruelty.

“I’ve seen you around before, you know. Lurking at the back. Helping yourself to our supplies. You shout quite a lot for someone who doesn’t know what we’re doing.” Enjolras said. That’s how he knew Grantaire’s name. He’d sent Feuilly to find out. The supplies were for people who needed them, but this one raggedy vagabond, half-hidden behind that scarlet bandana, kept helping himself without even bothering to offer to contribute? Enjolras had wanted to know. He’d planned to have words with Grantaire the next time he’d come sulking about. Now, though Enjolras just needed to keep talking. Grantaire was right about the dangers of falling asleep, but his companion seemed too preoccupied to find conversation without prodding.

“No shit.” Grantaire grunted, leaning over to pick some hunk of metal or another off the concrete. “I thought—” He swung the metal at the wrought iron beam, and the resounding sound destroyed Enjolras’ calm. He shouted, and that only made the pain worse. “Sorry.” Grantaire dropped his makeshift bat with a clatter, kicking it aside. “If I’d known you were Builders I never would have come around.”

He didn’t say it, but Enjolras could hear the accusation. If Grantaire had avoided them, he wouldn’t be trapped under this mass of tangled metal and crumbling concrete.

“What the hell are you doing over there, anyway?”

“Your friends are still out there, right? They knew you were going to be here, today? Knocking my building down?”

“ _Your_ building?”

“Not anymore.” Grantaire paused. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then came to kneel by Enjolras again. A canteen was fished from his hip, and he took a deep pull before wiping his mouth on his sleeve and pressing the canteen to Enjolras’ lips, helping brace Enjolras’ head while he drank. “Don’t get too worked up. I’m not gonna ask you to replace it or anything.” Enjolras coughed nastily, and groaned as the force of his hacking split at his skull.

“Wh-what is that?”

“Moonshine.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, biting back a swear. He wanted water, not home-grown-hooch.

“No sleeping.” Grantaire said again. He settled near Enjolras, crossing his legs and hunching over to prop his elbows upon the patched knees of his trousers. Seemingly as an afterthought, he added, “Your boyfriend is gonna kill me. You’re a mess.”

That got Enjolras’ attention, and his eyes snapped back open. He looked at Grantaire without turning his head. “What boyfriend?”

“Shit, is your head that bad? The big one. With the glasses. Asian?”

“Combeferre?” Enjolras would have laughed if the pain of his coughing hadn’t been so fresh. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Grantaire made an indecipherable noise at the back of his throat. “Ah. Well then. He’ll kill me anyways, I reckon.”

“He won’t. He’s a doctor. Hippocratic oath.”

“The Hippocratic oath means piss this side of the Storm.”

“Combeferre would be the first to tell you that it means more now than it did before. It’s very important to him.”

“Open your eyes.”

Enjolras was not aware that he had closed them again.

“Listen, I’m gonna keep bangin’ on that beam. Sorry about your head, but there’s better ways to die than trapped in a hole. If your friends really are Builders, they’ll be out looking for you. I can’t dig us out, but maybe they can.” He stared down at Enjolras for a full minute before he moved, however.

Upon shifting, he shucked the leather coat, rolling it and leaning to tuck it beneath Enjolras’ neck. “Don’t fall asleep.” He instructed again, “And don’t fucking bleed on that, it’s the only coat I have.”


End file.
